Page 72 of Twisted Proposal

Artem lifted his hand, and immediately a member of his security detail was at his side. I hadn't even realized they were in the restaurant. No wonder the staff were all so terrified.

The guard was wearing a black-on-black suit that, although it fit well, did nothing to hide the gun holster under his arm, or at his ankle. The metal gleamed dully in the dim light, a promise of violence barely concealed.

He whispered something into the security guard's ear. The man gave Artem a single nod before taking a step back and disappearing, melting into the shadows like he'd never existed.

"What are you going to do to him?" I asked, my heart racing in my chest.

"That," Artem said, his eyes locked with mine, "is none of your concern."

His hand returned to my thigh under the table, squeezing possessively, a reminder of exactly who I belonged to.

CHAPTER23

ARTEM

Dinner had been tense.

It had started so well and for a moment, I thought we were both enjoying ourselves. Then it all fell apart when I found out about the little mind games her professor had been playing.

The rest of the dinner she was practically mute.

She would speak to answer my questions in one or two words. Her earlier curiosity about my work, or how I knew her brother, had vanished like smoke.

The mood had soured, and the food tasted like sawdust in my mouth. Her appetite must have disappeared with mine. She pushed her food around her plate but barely ate a thing, the beautiful curve of her lips set in a tight line.

When I put my hand on her lower back to escort her down the cold hallway to her apartment, she flinched from my touch before correcting herself.

I fought the urge to grip her tighter, to remind her who she belonged to.

The thin fabric of her dress did nothing to mask the heat of her skin beneath my palm. I could feel every breath she took, every subtle shift of her muscles.

She said nothing as I guided her, but I could feel the tension in her body, and how it intensified the closer we got to her door.

This time, I'd shoulder part of the blame. The meetings I had earlier hadn't gone to plan, and when I found out that some half-wit professor was tearing down my girl, trying to make her vulnerable so he could make a move, I nearly lost control.

Nearly. If it wasn't for the clumsy waitress dropping the plate and breaking my focus, I would have. This had to end. I couldn't have such a precarious grasp on my temper and still be the cold, effective leader I needed to be.

It was easy to see what changed.

Her.

Something about her brought unpredictability and emotions out in me.

I knew that. What I didn't know was how to solve the problem.

Did I need to claim her, make sure she knew she was mine?

Really mine—marked and claimed in ways she couldn't deny?

My cock throbbed painfully against my zipper at the thought of bending her over right here in this hallway, hiking up that dress, and showing her exactly who she belonged to.

Or should I break her so she lost her fight, and I would lose interest?

Did I need to trick her into loving me, so she became my escape like Samara was for Gregor?

Or did I just need to be rid of her?

Letting her go wouldn't be enough.